"Ah!" exclaimed Jack, starting to his feet. The reply he received this time put him into a state of continuous bewilderment. In olden days it boasted a chapel, dedicated to Saint Thomas; beneath which there was a crypt curiously constructed amid the arches, where "was sepultured Peter the Chaplain of Colechurch, who began the Stone Bridge at London:" and it still boasted an edifice (though now in rather a tumbledown condition) which had once vied with a palace,—we mean Nonesuch House. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. At least, I frustrated her design in calling upon him this morning. A woman isn’t much freer—in reality. "At the Black Lion in our street," replied Jack, without hesitation. ‘You didn’t understand it any better than I.
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